


In Search of Yesterday

by SkyHighDisco



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: F/M, Mindy "I honestly don't know how to deal with him anymore" Hammond, Mystery, Richard is a clumsy sod, So kind of like a reader insert but not really?, Unspecified OC - Freeform, Whoever you want - Freeform, cryptic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: On a morning run, Richard twists his ankle. Being in the middle of the forest and without his phone, he limps to the closest little house to ask for help. What he finds there will turn out to be far beyond his wildest expectations.
Relationships: Mindy Hammond/Richard Hammond, Richard Hammond & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	In Search of Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A few beers and a sip of French wine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527541) by [argonautic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argonautic/pseuds/argonautic). 



> Inspiration is split between Richard’s interview with Absolute Radio from 2009 and [argonautic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argonautic/pseuds/argonautic)’s concept of her story “A few beers and a sip of French wine”. Both equally responsible and tremendous. <3
> 
> Set in (probably?) November 2009.
> 
> (The music in question is Franz Schubert's "Die Forelle". :) )

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. None of it.

The idea was a six-day holiday in the highlands of Scotland, for Izzy and Willow’s first skiing experience (even as it’s most definitely not a Hammond thing, but Richard just wants his girls to experience life to the fullest from as early age as possible).

But then Andy calls and Richard has to do a voice-over which coincides with the third or fourth day of the family holiday, but no matter. He can fly over, do the job and fly back to his girls.

That was all fine and well.

Until a seemingly innocent crisp November morning brings a mallet to the carefully constructed tower of dominos Richard has concocted. And it’s nobody’s fault but his.

He’s running towards the bottom of the hill on his usual route, feeling the pleasant beat of his bloodstream against his temples and passes by a small path to his left.

Now he has to admit, he’s been tempted. Many, many times whether he should take it or not. It seems to be an eternal argument between two voices in his head each time he runs by, but this time, the voice insisting he take the left turn for a change prevails and he surprisingly quickly rounds back around to explore this new trail, feeling childishly adventurous.

It’s the same fervor that lasts only just and his poor decision-making comes back to bite him in the arse. Because it’s across some near-invisible, smoothly hidden branch that he slips and hears a crack which isn’t the branch. He topples over with much less dignity than he sees in the movies and just manages to curse them when the pain begins.

Richard crawls across the moist dirt and rotten leaves, dragging the busted foot behind and emitting miserable whines way below the line of dignified. He reaches for the first bigger branch that he sees and which looks tough enough to support his weight, then crawls up the tree with one hand like a disabled gecko, trying not to cry out in pain every time his foot would scrape the ground. Then the branch is jutted painfully under his right pit and he begins hopping off down the trail.

Richard realizes he won’t be able to do that for long. The end of the branch hurts enough that he thinks it will burst through his shoulder and his left leg is quickly tiring out. He pants between the whiny ‘ _ow_ ’s and at some point is absolutely sure he is going to fall over and die of exhaustion.

He moves towards the first house he sees and it’s, thankfully and miraculously, not far. Couple some fifty, seventy meters.

A set of four steps is first to be conquered, though, if he wishes to reach the door and he’s completely breathless and in burning pain after he finally manages to knock.

A woman opens not long after.

Richard was expecting many things. The “Oh, I’ve always wanted to meet you!”, the “I’m your biggest fan”, or in any case a fair amount of squealing and in the most alarming case, fainting.

This girl’s eyebrows shoot up and crook into a wrinkling frown and what comes out of her mouth is a “Wha—already?” at the bedazzled look that shot down and up Richard’s persona.

Richard momentarily forgets about the pain and rapidly blinks. “Pardon?”

There’s a second of a pause that honestly feels like the time had stopped where neither moves. Tense eyes are observing him back and Richard feels like a shrew under the far-reaching vision of a harpy eagle and he fights off the impulsive shivers.

But just as suddenly as it came, the pause is gone, and with a single, jerky shake, her expression turns startled and concerned, her actions corresponding accordingly.

“Oh, dear, gosh, let me help you with that.”

And then the makeshift crutch is being replaced by the warmth of another body and he is being half-dragged over the doorstep and into the small house, a cottage even, supported by the (thankfully, hopefully?) normal, quick-witted person.

The inside is a bit compressed, but then, Richard is used to the vastness of his home, so he knows he shouldn’t judge, especially this helpless. There’s a table surrounded by three chairs covered in books, scripts, papers, a mug, a table lamp, and a laptop. It’s a bit dark, but the day is damp and strange and the winter is right at the door.

With a bit of struggle and a lot of pathetic whines of pain from Richard, he is sat down in the nearest chair. Instinctively, he doesn’t bend in the knee despite it not suffering at all in this crappy situation. He grits his teeth when his host tries to carefully remove his shoe and tries not to curse at her. Pain makes people do things they normally don’t want to do.

He would know.

The running shoe is quickly off and Richard feels unexpected crawls of embarrassment warming their way up his neck and across his ears. The sock quickly follows and he feels oddly exposed. He tries to reason the steps taken are necessary but somehow, it doesn’t quite shoe the feeling away.

The girl inspects his foot, and there’s this harpy-esque look again. It’s scrutinizingly perspicacious and Richard tries to shove away the half-impression his foot is about to be bitten off and served with side-dish.

“Well, you’ve done it in completely, that’s for sure. It’s about to start to turn blue. I’ll go get the ice.”

Methodically, she is gone and back before Richard can properly miserably moan and he tries and fails to suppress a hiss when a pack of pure coldness meets his skin. Again, she doesn’t mock or scold or tut at him, merely directs his hand to hold the thing himself, and Richard feels like a kindergarten child.

As if things couldn’t get more shameful, next he is met with a no-joke gaze. “Have you called someone already?”

The embarrassment comes full tilt and he wants to sink through the floor and rid the world of this incompetence he is feeling, which he hasn’t felt in decades. He finds himself mumbling barely audibly, “I don’t have my phone.”

A head tilt. “Sorry?”

Richard repeats himself, still not quite able to look his rescuer in the eye. He is so ashamed he is sure the inevitable telling-off is coming.

Instead, though, she straightens, wiping a hand damp with melted ice on the pack surface against the trousers. “That is no problem, I’ll lend you mine. I should probably go and find it.”

Punctuated, clattering staccato breaks through Richard’s blues and echoes from down the small hallway stretching from the room and soon, something short, long and black comes waddling curiously into the common area. It’s a black shepherd with a notable dose of silver around his snout and eyes, lazy and unhurried, making a beeline for Richard and taking a seat by the chair, bypassing the offered top of the hand for a greeting sniff and allowing his head and chest into Richard’s already wanting free hand and cooing greetings.

“He’s so approachable” he looks up at her, but the intonation of complete disbelief steers it into the form of a question.

She smiles thinly, almost helplessly. “Yeah. Wouldn’t say as much when he was a baby. That’s Draupnir, and I hope you don’t mind if he keeps you company while I look for the phone and make tea?”

Richard can only grin at such an absurd suggestion, mood already impossibly brightened. “Not at all.”

She is gone into the kitchen area and quickly the animal’s name completely vanishes from Richard’s confounded mind, so he just settles for a “good boy”. The dog watches him with warm brown eyes, and there are strange calmness and wisdom in them. Like he knows something Richard doesn’t. Like he’s smarter than his canine exterior lets be known.

Trying to shake the thought away, Richard looks around the small housing. Shelves full of books and trinkets, cupboards, and a small coffee table mark the room he’s in. Like a combined vestibule, living, and dining room.

There’s no TV, only the laptop. It’s an uncharacteristically thin Lenovo, smaller than usual. Richard almost snorts at that. It almost puts his newest DELL model to shame.

He goes to inspect it, but the steps announce his host’s return and Richard’s hands are luckily occupied by an ice pack and a lazy dog so he doesn’t have to search for excuses for not having retracted his hand back in time. 

She gives him one of those slide phones with a sideways keyboard and Richard is quick to type Mindy’s number almost automatically. His host leaves him to it and disappears down another short hallway presumably towards the kitchen after giving general instructions on how to reach the place.

“Why on Earth would you go down a path you don’t know?” Mindy wants to know over the speakers, sounding less concerned and more displeased.

Richard sighs. “Yes, I know. I’ve heard that already. You know why. And I thought… It’d show that I don’t want you to worry.”

“It’s my _job_ to worry, you colossal dumb”, she chides, but sighs in defeat herself, realizing she knew all this even before marrying him, and she married him still, nonetheless. “Even as all things considered I should be admitted I’m better than most women in that area.”

“The best”, Richard smiles.

“Don’t bootlick me, Mr. Hammond. I’m on my way. And _you_ ’re telling the girls how and why you’ve ruined what was going to be a perfectly good holiday.”

“Skiing was never a Hammond thing, anyway.”

“Richard.”

Another small sigh. “To them and to you.”

“Stay put.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He puts the phone back on the table and looks at the dog. “Never get married unless you’re prepared to be the guilty one all the time.”

The animal whines weakly and rests its silvery snout on Richard’s thigh, scrunching its eyes closed.

Richard puts the ice pack on the table to restore the feeling in his fingers a little. Shaking the hand out and putting it under his leg, he spies the corner-stapled script laying on the desk. It’s closer than the laptop, but there’s a smooth black bulge underneath it. Richard would completely ignore it were it not for the fact it appeared like it was put there much too deliberately. Like it was hidden.

Richard holds himself back for full three seconds. Then grabs a pen from a pencil holder to his right and reaches over the table to lift the caving page with it.

Richard had his own newest i-phone (“Ee-phone.” “No, James, that’s not how you say it.”) — at home. It’s the latest model on the market and he thinks it would be in a rather poor, cracked condition had he really taken it with him today.

This on the table is a Huawei. The name rings a bell, but the appearance is so off-putting. It’s nearly a third bigger than Richard’s phone, and there is no button to press to lit up the screen. It’s simply a flat, dark screen and nothing else.

If he was given the phone to talk to Mindy, he wonders, exchanging confused glances between the two devices… then what in the world was this?

Risking a glance towards the kitchen entrance, Richard reaches over and tries tapping the screen multiple times, but it stays stubbornly dark. It isn’t futuristic-looking in any way, but it is definitely more advanced than most phones he’s seen.

He will also, in his haste and anxiety to not be spotted fiddling around with things that aren’t his, fail to notice that the buttons are on the side.

In fact, the more he looks around, the more oddities Richard notices. Complex, unmoving perpetuum mobiles disposed around the shelves and commodes. Lack of plants or flowers.

How there is no clock anywhere.

There are no photos on the shelves. Of anyone. Family, friends, vacations. There is nothing.

There is nothing too domestic, either. Trinkets that might’ve been presents or memories.

Apart from the shelf full of books.

With a suppressed grunt at the back of his throat, ambled by the same suffocating curiosity that got him into this situation in the first place, Richard pushes himself from the chair and as quietly as possible hops his way to the shelf. As luck will have it, the cottage is small so he needn’t have skipped long. He’s also pretty sure looking through someone else’s bookshelf is more of a compliment than snooping.

But when he leans against it like a lifeline, he still minds being conspiratorially quiet for some reason.

His eyes skid across the horizontal rows of letters. They are mostly classics or books that pre-exist the date of birth of today’s living man. Some cliché-looking crime novels, poetry books, history.

And then one particular name catches his eye.

Jeremy Clarkson.

Richard almost snorts, but a smirk is slowly forming on his face and he unhesitant reaches to pull it out.

Surprisingly, he hasn’t seen this one before.

“ _What Could Possibly Go Wrong_ ”, he mutters the title to himself, staggered by yet another bizarre choice of a name, but that’s a bit hypocritical, he’s aware.

_Wow, you big cock. You never gloated about your new book. Keeping secrets isn’t like you, what’s up with that?_

Curiously, he flips to the beginning to check the publishing date.

25th September, 2014.

Richard blinks. Squints and nears the book to his eyes. It doesn’t change a thing. He isn’t going blind, he hasn’t read that wrong. The numbers and the month are exactly what it says, no mistake.

_Must be a publishing mistake. Can’t trust those guys with anything anymore._

Nevertheless, it’s a great bantering material, knowing something he hasn’t yet been told. Richard’s mind mischievously boils with theatrical ideas about how he’s going to break it to Clarkson, and the results alone are enough to brighten his mood.

How on Earth it ended up on the shelf of this woman is another story. One of Jeremy’s many friends, Richard supposed. Something privileged about being a friend of Jeremy Clarkson, you get to have all his books in advance. Strangely composed reaction, then, when seeing one of his colleagues, but Richard doesn’t want to season his ego even more, not even only to himself. He honestly prefers this reaction.

The dog is silent, but he’s following Richard’s every move without a fault like a monitoring camera. It’s almost disapproving.

“I’m not stealing anything”, Richard promises, putting the book back and about to return, realizing his healthy leg is starting to protest under having to carry all his weight despite the shelf support.

But another familiar name catches his attention.

Richard Porter.

Richard pulls it out, interest growing rapidly. Well, that’s more of a coincidence now.

Flabbergasted, and more convinced he is in the house of someone who watches Top Gear more than thoroughly, he reads the title.

_And On That Bombshell: Inside the Madness and Genius of Top Gear_

Huh? When did he write _that_?

Publishing date says 22nd October, 2015.

And by it, something that sends Richard spinning, and had he not been leaned against the shelf, he would’ve toppled over to the floor.

It’s him.

His name.

Surely he wrote some books in his life.

He is also sure he’s never been drunk enough to write a book and publish it before he’s sobered up enough to know he wrote it.

_On the Road: Growing Up in Eight Journeys_

With hands beginning to tremble, Richard grabs it and turns the first page.

7th November.




Whilst he is putting it back, trying not to make too much noise with his clumsiness his eyes graze against a thin book labelled in wide striped red letters called _The Grand Tour_ and some old, primal instinct inside him tells him not to touch it for the sake of everything that is holy or it might burn his fingers or melt his eyeballs or something.

Instead, there is a printed report from an online article sitting upright on the shelf against a sequence of unimportant books of which Richard only dares to read the headline.

**DONALD TRUMP’S SECOND IMPEACHMENT: WILL THE SENATE CONVICT HIM? After hearing evidence against former president, The Senate’s 50 Republicans and 50 Democrats will have to decide Trump’s verdict**

_Trump? The casino businessman? A **president**? _

Richard isn’t well informed, but the name rings a bell and he knew what it belonged to, thanks to a certain robust ape quick to criticize worldwide propagandas. But this is getting ridiculous. This is diving into conspiracy theories. The day a public figure like him sits in the White House would be the doom of not only the US, but the whole global business trade.

But Richard wouldn’t delve into it for too long. He thinks he’s had quite enough shock for one day. Instead, trying to rationalize what he has seen on his way back to the table with all means from having hit his head somehow when he fell to convincing himself he didn’t see any of it at all, Richard slumps back in the chair under firm, accusatory glare of an old dog.

“Curious, don’t you think?” he asks it.

The dog demands more pets.

Richard obliges. Makes to grab the ice pack which has moistened the table, but instead, his hand self-willingly wanders to the script overlaying the strange phone and he turns it towards himself, eyes immediately drawn to the bold letters below the top inscriptions. His heart beats faster, despite his body being stationary.

**UK REFUSES TO SET DATE TO LIFT RESTRICTIONS DURING COVID-19 PANDEMIC LOCKDOWN: Another 20,632 coronavirus cases on Thursday, with 915 deaths within positive tests, taking the total measure to 111,250**

This time coldness washes over his arms and raises soft hair along them, mind tumbling around one particular combination of words like a broken, crazed washing machine.

_Virus. Pandemic. Lockdown. Eleven hundred thousand deaths._

“What in the world…” he breathes.

That’s it.

He’s in the home of a conspiracy theory lunatic. Either that or a scholar who is doing a very oddly-themed thesis. There is no other explanation that would calm his logical part of the brain.

Richard suddenly realizes how cold the small cottage is. How dark the corners are and how despite having all the things, furniture and books, there is no trace of domesticity you would usually feel in any home. The whole interior feels temporary and staged. Almost fake.

The pretense of a household attempting to appear normal.

He also becomes aware of quiet, spindly music unravelling elsewhere in the house, having no idea for how long it had been going on already. It slides from the background of his subconsciousness directly into his ear, brain processing words in clear German, stoic even with the gentle, flowery melody of an aria.

_Ein Fischer mit der Rute  
Wohl an dem Ufer stand,  
Und sah’s mit kaltem Blute  
Wie sich das Fischlein wand.  
  
So lang dem Wasser helle  
So dacht’ ich, nicht gebricht,  
So fängt er die Forelle  
Mit seiner Angel nicht._

Richard is startled out of his mind when a clang of ceramic is heard along with quiet cursing and he quickly slides the paper back to its place, shakily trying to position the folded paper over the dark phone exactly as it was as the steps echo down the hall.

His hand grips the ice pack which he pretends to have just put onto the table just as his host comes back with a tray holding two cups, a kettle and a plate of fluffy cubes.

“Good news! I found lamingtons from two or three days ago, but don’t worry, they’re just fine.”

Richard doesn’t remember if he responded coherently, but then he’s offered tea and his concerns about how he is going to hide the nervousness are dispersed when he hisses yet again, this time at stark contrast between the warmth of the cup and his fingers which have previously been holding the pack of ice.

She doesn’t speak first. She looks far too content for that, attention kept to the stylish porcelain cup in her hands. Richard is unsure whether to take that as an alarming sign or not.

“Are you”, his voice comes out scratchy and broken and he has to firmly clear it, shake his head and start again, “Are you not from around here?”

“Flat prices are stupidly high in London”, she casually responds. “If you want anywhere that’s more than just a mattress and a toilet and where a dog is allowed, you have to abandon any hope of living remotely central.”

_That under the script about some doggone virus pandemic is a phone of someone who should effortlessly be able to afford a flat in London with more than just a mattress and a toilet._

“Ah…”, he goes with it either way. He decides to be stealthily curious instead of openly blatant. “Does the distance trouble you? For work, I mean.”

She pouts a bit, thinking. “Sometimes.”

“What do you do for work?” he asks automatically before quickly catching himself. “If I’m prying, it’s fine, you don’t have to answer. I’m sorry.”

“It _is_ fine”, she assures him. Then casually crosses her legs and bites her lower lip. Richard gets his response after a moment, “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.” He hopes it sounded more charismatic than challenging.

Her glassy gaze doesn’t let him know which one of the two she interprets. She smiles a bit sadly and gestures towards his foot with her eyelids. “Is it better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“Would you mind explaining how a man of your vigour and agility ends up as a victim of gravity that many times?”

Richard rubs his palms under the table, rummaging his eyes around until they lastly settle against hers. “It’s complicated?”

A weak chuckle is exchanged between the pair and Richard squirms in the uncomfortable silence. Being the talkative one and unable to stand something like that, he tries again. “So now that we’ve established things in our lives are complicated, what _could_ we talk about?” _Justification for having books on the shelf with publishing dates years from now, for instance?_

She squints, tilting her head. “Why _is_ there a necessity for having something to talk about?”

“Because that’s what people do?” he suggests.

She nods vaguely, whispering an echo “Because that’s what normal people do…”

The conversation seems to halt again and Richard wishes to spill the tea over the cakes if only to break the yes-no-maybe monotony. She rests her left arm against the backrest of the chair, forearm hanging limply downwards.

Richard doesn’t fail to notice a small watch in clear view around her wrist doesn’t tick away.

The thinnest hand is frozen and stationary.

But then she speaks again, and normal volume suddenly seems explosive and jerks Richard in the chair, having the dog’s ears stand up at attention where his sleepy head had been resting on Richard’s leg. “I wouldn’t worry about that, though. The world is too big to not initiate conversation, even among complete opposites. As I’m sure you can think of something in no time. What’s the first thing that comes to your mind, Mr. Hammond?”

_What is this pandemic your script-thesis is about?_

“Weather is horrible today, isn’t it?” he blurts instead.

She gestures approvingly at him with an open palm, the way Jeremy sometimes does when asking for one of the other two to complete his statement. “Favoured topic between in-laws and players of opposite teams in the tunnel before the big game.”

“And when you run out of weather?” Richard wants to know.

“Your favourite wine”, she suggests.

“I prefer gin tonic.”

“There you go, you see. As fun as it would be, the good news is that we’ll never know everything. Would take fun out of life, would it?”

She grins, and it’s an odd smile, crooked on one side, but there it is again, that harpy stare, which doesn’t combine well with the mouth.

 _How much do_ you _know?_

And Richard understands the grave size of his vulnerability. How he doesn’t know why, but he knows that if he had to, he wouldn’t be able to run. He’s in an unfamiliar territory, alone, with thick strangeness emitting from the air, eye-pinching things that don’t belong here, the skin-prickling woman and her old, staring dog and the German aria seeming to loop somewhere in a different room of the small house.

_Doch endlich ward dem Diebe  
Die Zeit zu lang.  
Er macht das Bächlein tückisch trübe,  
Und eh’ ich es gedacht  
  
So zuckte seine Rute  
Das Fischlein zappelt dran,  
Und ich mit regem Blute  
Sah die Betrog’ne an._

He suddenly doesn’t want another sip out of the cup. Cakes least of all.

* * *

Mindy knocks on the worn-out door, turning her husband’s words in her head for the twentieth time and hoping she’s got the address right. Service isn’t really the best in this area.

She is greeted by a broad smile. “Mrs. Stuntman, I presume!”

Mindy sighs. “I should embrace that name without thinking, all things considered. I do apologize and hope he didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

“None of that. And I’d rather use the words ‘sturdily resilient’, if you will allow.”

Mindy brightens at the sight of a dog, but not her husband. Instead, she asks, hands on hips and all, “Where’s your phone?”

Richard bows his head in embarrassment for the second time that day, this time under his wife’s stern glare. “Well… I don’t carry it on my runs.”

“And look what happens when you don’t.”

Mindy politely refuses tea, saying how she left briefly, leaving the girls unsupervised, which, in a house their size, is unwise. The other woman seemed to be understanding and Richard is glad he doesn’t have to spend another minute in that cottage.

The two women balance Richard between them, an arm around each of their shoulders for leverage and putting an injured man into the passenger seat of the car is a lot harder than it looks.

“I’ll have a word with him when we get home. He won’t be going anywhere without his phone anymore”, Mindy tells the other woman, huffing with effort. Her husband being her size isn’t something life-saving in situations like these, she has learned not so recently. “Thank you for everything. He is lucky you were there.”

“That remains to be seen”, the girl hums.

“Beg your pardon?”

She squints again, eyes glimmering with something beyond what Mindy can comprehend. “I hope it isn’t too bold to say, but I believe I’m speaking the truth when I say your husband is impulsive. Just as I believe it’s something you already know. This won’t stop him.”

Reasonable as she is, true as this sentence sounds, Mindy feels exceptionally defensive of her husband at those words and simply says. “That _is_ too bold.”

But she still departs with a polite “thank you for your help once again”, and rounds the car to the driver’s seat.

With a hand on the door, Mindy is interrupted with a sudden, “Mrs. Stuntman!”

She looks up. The woman is leaning against the doorframe of the entrance, arms crossed over her chest. The dog sits obediently by her side, observing the departing guests with a thorough, complicated stare.

“It will be all right”, she states punctuatingly and dips her chin a little with some sort of significance Mindy is too flustered and there are too many other thoughts zipping about her head for her to understand.

The important tone of the woman makes the sentence cement itself in Mindy’s brain, though. And it won’t surface until nearly a decade later.

The Rover speeds off and the woman and her dog are standing there for a while, fresh breeze sneaking past them and entering the house, exploring its dark corners and temporary setting.

The shepherd looks up at his master, whining quietly.

“Yes, I know”, she says pensively, not looking away from where the off-roader disappeared to, then detaches herself from the doorframe and nudges the dog inside. “He saw.”

* * *

Richard googles Trump and COVID-19, but nothing ever comes out of it. He questions Jeremy about his new books plans, but gets nothing except a consoling pat on the shoulder and how he is glad to hear Richard’s looking up to him so much. Porter just looks at him like Richard asked him if he’d fancy a stroll to Mars.

He still thinks about it sometimes. The mysterious woman in a rented cottage and a clever-eyed dog.

Most of all, he more and more starts giving significance to _“Wha— already?”_ greeting he was met with.


End file.
